To find my own place
by celticlee
Summary: First fanfiction attempt, so be as cutthroat as you want in reviews! Haha! Inspired by Frozen (owned by Disney and not me obviously) Oneshot. Hans contemplates his reasons for his less-than-reasonable actions. (WARNING CONTAINS EXTENDED METAPHORS ) Rated T 'cos I can't imagine a kid sitting through this (if you are a kid, congrats, you get my everlasting appreciation!)


I was never the one.

Never the firstborn. Never the true love. Never the good guy.

It was probably in my blood since the day I was born.

Ha, everyone's misunderstood, right? In some way, or shape, or form…

Your skin. Your gender. Your sexuality.

Your powers.

Ironic, really. She could have been the one who understood me. We could have so easily switched places, been in each other's shoes.

She could've been the one.

But of course, she didn't need me. She could've, if I had made her need me.

But she's better than that. And I'm not.

The one genuine thing I spoke that day…

I guess some part of me thought she still had a chance. Unlike _some_ people.

But why did I give her that chance?

I never liked her. I don't like people who make me slip up and say stupid things.

Stupid worthless truths.

What's worth more are the lies you see. They're more believable, more fun –

There's no pain in lies.

When you lie, you can control the world –

It's not a mere difference between good and evil – ha! As if such things exist.

No, lying is an art, one I've been taught in and perfecting my entire life.

They're all just people. We're only human. We _play _with each other, little toy soldiers marching round and round in circles…

I never wanted to be king. I just wanted a kingdom to play with. Landscapes to paint, figures to cherish, stories to spin.

But being king is the only job that comes with that privilege. If I was a carpenter's son, things would be different maybe…

But I'm a king's son. And Little princes are taught how to play with little kingdoms and little dolls they call subjects.

What I don't understand is why everyone over-reacted so much!

It's not fair. I never got the chance to play like the others.

I was taught the technique for cards, shown how to count, to deal –

And I learnt! I absorbed it all like a good little schoolboy!

But they never gave me the pack.

Only thing I could've ended up with was a dog-eared joker.

Not even two, to keep each other company.

Just the lonely one.

And I'd give that up for a chance at the lonely ace of hearts any day.

Anyone would.

I'm an actor by birth, not a prince. I'd choose an actor's life any day, days, days and nights, in and out just spent manipulating people like clay, their emotions are putty in your hands for that precious few hours –

And every night, so much pressure, such a challenge, you only have 120 minutes to create your masterpiece, BEGIN!

And then before you know it, it's over. And you look out, and see that you've stamped your watermark on each of their foreheads, and the piece is beautiful

and finished

and it appears different every time because each time you're given different emotions

different material

different toys

different people to play with –

And they love you for it. They _pay _you for it.

But the son of a king could never become an actor, could he? It's not proper.

But the thirteenth son could never become a king, could he? It's not possible.

They taught me instead to destroy. Destroy all that perfectly good material, those perfectly raw pieces just waiting to be created –

That's what the thirteenth has to do. Unlucky that I am. I'm only good for cleaning up the messes, they thought. Gross, violent military. No chance to pay, only fight.

They didn't let me have my life's childhood as king.

They usually commend those who break boundaries, take risks, let it go…

If you try to be an actor in real life though, they _hate _you.

So much.

Ah well. I suppose it's better than being ignored.

I tried to destroy her, them, because it angered me. I knew I'd created such a beautiful piece – such a wonderful story – with characters that would adore me…

But I could never keep it. Never.

When I decided I'd do it, I don't know. I don't remember much of it – most of it was improvisation on the spot, impulse – it's best that way – no one likes a game or a story when people have already told you what to do, you want it to be new and fresh every time, for every moment after there cannot be another moment like it…

They were experiments. The first was fun, she was red and full of life – so easy to hold – so warm. You put warmth into her and it just spread… but when she got warm, she got weak. Crumbled beneath your fingers. She felt so different to what I had had before – but she had the potential to be too PERFECT. I needed WEAKNESSES.

It was too tempting really. Like a big red button you can't help but push.

What if? What if you push that immature, ill formed, vulnerable surface just a bit too far into the heat?

She hardened. Granted, she's still vulnerable, but much less so.

Masterpiece number one complete.

I never got much of a chance with the second one. She was grey – those grainy bits of grit giving her a roughness that didn't really belong in such a smooth, soggy mess of a form. If I'd just had the chance to touch her, I could have shaped something beautiful. But I never got to place her in the heat. She chose to stay out in the cold –

And when she came back, she was pure white.

Against all logic. Porcelain. Unnaturally so. Uniquely so.

I never stood a chance at completing my collection with this clay around, who did whatever she pleased. Clay that had a mind of its own?

I would never be able to shape something so flawless.

I never hated the first. It could have been an attractive experiment, finally a result worth waiting for – I'd find the right component and magic would happen for me… I'd finally have a kingdom.

But then the one piece of reality was needed, the one piece I couldn't control, the one material I couldn't provide or obtain or –

Was I angry at the second who threw it in my path? That icy obstacle that pierced my prize?

Or at myself for not being able to live up to reality?

Love's the hardest thing to sculpt. You can't write love stories, they just happen.

Everything else just happened though. Why was it so hard for me?

That moment I tried so desperately to be the experiment. To live the story. To spin out of control.

But you can't force spontaneity.

I saw that. And that's why I changed the story.

I was never going to let myself fall into a boring play.

I just wanted a chance to play.

But the game-maker can never get lost in his own game, can he?

And everyone hates him for it.


End file.
